warm winds
by ecophobia
Summary: breezepelt, his family, healing, and acceptance. (crossposted from ao3.)


**A/N:** sorry for any formatting mistakes! I haven't posted to ffn in quite literally years!

* * *

Breezepaw has his mother's eyes.

She coos this to him as she licks him between the ears, even though he's eight moons old and doesn't need to be treated like a kit, even though he's stalked through the forest and felt prey die in his jaws. Nightcloud simply rumbles praise to him, honey-sweet words that fade into nonsense, and drags her tail tight around him when Crowfeather passes.

"Your father is not a good cat," she hisses to him, a reminder, and Breezepaw watches Crowfeather's tail flick and realizes he does not know his father's eyes.

* * *

Breezepelt has his father's tongue.

He wants to be seen - by anyone, anything - and so he is loud. Loud and rude and only in bad faith, because Crowfeather does the same, and someone will have to hear him, someday. Only Heathertail ever seems to, and she presses close to him and tells the others that there is kindness in him still. Breezepelt isn't sure that's true. He isn't sure Heathertail believes it, either.

"Kittypets," he hisses at ThunderClan patrols, and tries to forget the way his own father betrayed his clan.

His mother's tongue still licks between his ears.

* * *

The hate Breezepelt carries is his own.

He feeds it deep in him, fights in moss and mushrooms and fog and feels his paws and muzzle bleed raw. It is for strength. It is for anger. It is for -

Who is he fighting for?

His lip curls. Crowfeather- it is always his fault. It must be his fault, because if it is not, where else is Breezepelt to turn his blame? Inwards? No.

It is his father's fault, and the hatred between his parents stings at the corners of his eyes.

* * *

Recently, Nightcloud has felt sorry.

She is not sure what she is sorry for - just that there is guilt that gnaws at her deep, stings her somewhere in her chest when she sees the lack of faith WindClan has in her son anymore. The fact that she does not meet his eyes. His eyes, so like hers.

She licks down his ruffled fur even as he squirms to get away from her. She has to still be his mother, even in the aftermath of everything he has done. She has to protect her son.

"I love you," Nightcloud mutters against his head, and Breezepelt doesn't respond.

Breezepelt is a sorry excuse for a warrior, these days.

* * *

Crowfeather takes his son hunting.

His son is a thought that bounces around his head, because he has three sons and one daughter and he barely knows any of them. He only knows Breezepelt's sharp tongue and spiteful words. He tries to pretend he doesn't know where that was learned from.

"Stop moping," Crowfeather says to Breezepelt, one day, with an irritated flick of his ears.

When they hunt, side by side, the wind in their fur, for a moment, Crowfeather is struck with an odd sort of regret. When his son drags a rabbit over, a dull shine in his eyes, something tired in his gaze, Crowfeather does not even have to think before he praises the catch.

It's what his son has really been hunting for, after all.

* * *

The blood never stops sticking to his paws.

Breezepelt has made mistakes - this he knows. He sees it in the gazes of his clanmates, withering and untrusting. He feels it somewhere in him when even Heathertail falls quiet. The anger in him is snuffed like a flame, suspended somewhere between morning and night, his father and his mother. They argue less, nowadays.

Who was his anger for? Himself, he knows now, his mistakes. It never was Crowfeather or Nightcloud, was it?

He curls in on himself and when he dreams, there are forests and marshlands. It does not feel even a little bit familiar.

It feels like adrenaline and deceit.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Breezepelt mews.

He tells it to many - first, to his father, his father who apologizes in turn, and he presses his muzzle to his father's neck and his father licks his head and for a moment he thinks that they can heal - second, to his mother, who licks his head and whispers words he cannot hear, who pulls away from him and treats him like a warrior - third, to Heathertail, who purrs even as her eyes shine with hurt, who tells him she always knew he had light in his heart.

When he falls asleep, Heathertail warm against his side, for the first time, his chest feels light.

And he is, truly, sorry.


End file.
